


Lonely Warmth

by rainy_boba



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Emotional Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Character Death, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Technoblade, after math of the 16th, i wrote this in my notes app half an hour ago ngl, im sorry bro, it isnt as fucked up as im making it sound i promise, its him reminising, rated teen for swearing!, technos just sad bro, tommy wilbur and phil are only mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27707071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainy_boba/pseuds/rainy_boba
Summary: it's cold outside and he's alone. all alone. and maybe, just maybe, he misses having a family, he misses being warm.(the tags make it look so unbearably sad but i promise its not that bad)
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Phil Watson, Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65





	Lonely Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Hello !!!!!!! i wrote this in my notes app and my friends thought it was really good (shout out heeg and alex bro)  
> i hope you enjoy this little drabble, i don't usually like writing things under a 1000 words but here we are! i promise its not as sickeningly sad as the tags make it out to be
> 
> TW // implied character death :(

it’s dark when he gets inside, he doesn’t bother changing but lies straight into bed, his house is warm. warmer that outside at least. this windows have fogged and frosted over from the chill and he can hear the wind howling and something akin to a polar bear roaring in the distance. he wants to sleep. exhaustion lays over him like a water logged blanket. he closes his eyes and prays to gods he’s never believed in for unconsciousness to sweep him into their grasps. it doesn’t come. nothing comes but the steady pump of thoughts in his head, so many in fact it doesn’t even feel like it’s him thinking at all. he wants it to stop so bad. he feels like a child, he wants to pad into his fathers room with the tiredness in his bones drowning out the shame of it. he wants to crawl into a warm bed and be cocooned by feathers that feel like the waves from the sea. he can’t do that though, can he? he’s brutally alone. 

all alone. 

he misses waking up to a loud and small body pouncing on top of him. guiding the small, he’d like to say small but he remembers him sprouting like a bean stalk, the kid is probably taller than he is now isn’t he? guiding the small, at the time, boy, helping him learn through frustrations with childish wooden swords. he remembers a blonde boy tugging on his sleeves in the middle of the night, avoiding eye contact by looking blatantly at the ceiling. he remembers thinking this is what dad must feel when he opens the covers of his bed sheets as an invitation. 

phil always likes making blueberry pancakes didn’t he? he remembers waking up to his father wearing a soft grin at the stove top, those were nice days weren’t they?

days and nights where there would only be two people in the house, long and somber strums of music dancing their way through the quiet house, there was always music. on the hard nights somehow he knew, there would always be light notes to cradle him to sleep when sleep dances and jump around him tauntingly. soft hands carding through unnatural pink locks, braiding with care and ease from years of practice, this was their thing wasn’t it? soft notes rumbling from him, he hums a simple tune of the nights where it’s just them two and gentle hands toying with his hair. there was always notes when they had their hushed talks, whispers between two brothers, one older by time and one older by experience. voices fleeting between themselves like no one was supposed to hear, not even them, feather notes falling between the words like they were made to be there. there have always been notes. there are notes right now, they’re shouldn’t be. he wants them to fucking _stop_ to shut up, to stop stop _please_ , there’s no more notes there’s no music, theres no soft hands carding through his hair with brotherly care, there’s no _wilbur_ to strum the strings of his stupidly sentimental guitar, wilburs gone. fuck. _fuck_. wilburs dead. 

there’s something that feels like a led ball stuck in this throat made from dread, there is a soft strum falling like the snowflakes that makes this frosty tomb. he wants them to shut the fuck up, please, _please, fuck._

he springs from bed, his hair feels matted with sweat that he didn’t bother to clean, he thinks that wilbur would’ve been upset at the state of it. he would’ve smirked at him when techno stumbled into his room in a sour mood, patted his bed and beckoned him to sit down. he’s not here to do that now is he? he never will be. no one will. he’s alone. 

he feels sick, _sick, sick, sick,_ he wants the song to stop, he’s never begged to hear the final strum to this song, but he prays for it to end, replacing his prayers of rest in turn for this bloody song to _end_. 

he finds himself at a mirror, disoriented steps bring him here and he doesn’t recognize whos standing in front of him. his hair is disgusting, and his braid is loose and lazy, he’s had to do it himself for months now. there have been no nights of calm humming or light whispers. he wants it gone. the strumming won’t stop it so fucking _loud_ in fact it’s gotten louder. he wants it to fucking _stop_.

his hands find the handle of cool metal before his mind can catch up to his actions, the strums sing! they keen and roll with some sort of sick joy, it drowns out any thought he could wish to think of other than crippling _grief_ he just wants it to stop. 

there’s a sickening tearing sound and his heart is in his hands. he grips it with far too much force and he feels the strands burst and bleed from the open end and dance gracefully to the ground, mockingly.

it is quiet now. and he is alone.

he cries.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked this little spur of the moment piece! i must say im surprisingly proud of it, pls pls leave comments if you want i love reading what people thing of my work !!! anyways i'll see you around, come find me at @/bitchhourss on twt i draw sometimes :)


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